


Rising to the Occasion

by avalonroses



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A&E, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Awkward Boners, Emergency room, M/M, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avalonroses/pseuds/avalonroses
Summary: Nurse Kirkland should have realised that, despite having treated many an idiot in the emergency room, there are always new ways for him to be surprised. Especially when it involves handsome, single parent alphas.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 173





	Rising to the Occasion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flybynight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybynight/gifts).



At this stage of his career, Arthur feels he can safely say that he’s seen it _all.  
  
_It’s enough for him to lose his faith in humanity, repeatedly, vigorously, but Arthur wouldn’t have continued in this line of work had he relinquished every drop of faith, but it’s often dangling by a thread. Nothing that a cup of tea can’t fix, anyway, but he’ll be lucky if he’ll squeeze a brew break in today. He’s glimpsed briefly into the emergency room earlier this morning and it did not look promising. Not that it ever does, Arthur can count the number of quiet days he’s had in this vocation on a single hand and have fingers to spare but one doesn’t go into emergency nursing with the expectation to have leisurely days.  
  
Arthur is hopeful that there won’t be any cases of frisky masturbation sessions that became out of hand, and utterly humiliating, because he’s not in the mood for another closeted alpha, adventurous beta or emboldened omega, sliding a candle or wine bottle or even a vibrator too far up their nethers. _Too_ many times he has had to witness such an act and it never ceases to amaze him—and cause him to ponder how humanity have survived for the time they have.  
  
It’s only been a year since Arthur had completed his advanced training and he is now qualified as an emergency nurse practitioner. He holds his own consultations, which has transpired to be dealing with all the cases that are too complicated for nurses below his station, but not urgent enough for the doctors, ergo, Arthur finds his day is consumed with a great many cases that simply don’t warrant a trip to the emergency room, or are just plain ridiculous.  
  
So, far his morning has consisted of removing a pin from the sole of an elderly woman’s foot that she had accidentally stepped on during a home repair of a pair of trousers—he’d heard the suspenseful tale in great detail—he’s seen to a little omega girl suffering from an asthma attack, an alpha who had attempted to prepare himself a bacon sandwich and severely scalded his hand in the process and an allergic reaction in a beta who had taken a large bite of a chocolate, apparently not realising it had contained nuts.  
  
All in a day’s work, he sighs internally.  
  
It doesn’t help that the human race is prone to idiocy. The large majority of these accidents can be chalked up to sheer clumsiness or a need for attention.  
  
“I’m having him,” Toby titters, approaching Arthur with such speed that they bump hips.  
  
Arthur peers over his clipboard, met with the perky, mischievous face of a fellow emergency nurse.  
  
“Who?” Arthur asks, confused. He hasn’t the faintest who Toby is talking about, and why the omega is eager to ‘have’ him.  
  
“The American,” the other omega ripostes, grinning, as though that would enlighten Arthur. He’s not spent all morning spying on people impatiently waiting on the metal chairs of the emergency room, kicking the vending machines and scowling into their paper cups of foul, cheap coffee, as Toby _seemingly_ has.  
  
“And how do you know he’s American?” Raising a fearsome brow, he grumbles, “I’ve been stuck in consultations all bloody morning, and I can see you’ve been having a lark instead, sifting through patients for a _second mate_ it seems.”  
  
“Come off it, Art,” Toby snorts. “I’ve just had to attend to an omega with ‘alarming rectal bleeding’. Well, it was just his period, wasn’t it? Jesus Christ.”  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes. That happens _all_ too often and Arthur has to wonder what on earth they’re teaching these adolescents in school. Accumulatively, Arthur would wager _sod all,_ he swears some of the intimate questions he’s had to answer, it’s a downright mystery how some people survive into adulthood.  
  
“I know he’s American because I can hear him from here—listen.”  
  
Toby jerks his head towards the emergency room—they’re currently hiding behind the reception desk—and Arthur follows his line of sight until he knows he’s found the alpha in question.  
  
Right, yes. Definitely American. A handsome one. Surely that’s the _worst_ kind of American.  
  
It’s an unfortunate evil of the role that the bulk of the people that they deal with tend to be unpleasant, but the shining, grateful few do tend to make everything worthwhile. However, even less so are as easy on the eyes as this alpha. Flirtatious alphas? Always. Normally, they tend to be twice or thrice Arthur’s age, incessantly lecherous, greasy fellows who need their hands smacked or sweet, elderly alphas who are harmless but not potential suitors for obvious reasons.  
  
“Ah,” is all Arthur says in reply.  
  
No wonder Toby wants to attend to that one. _Arthur_ does, too. Almost. Sort of. Does being that gorgeous atone for the annoying traits the alpha will no doubt possess?  
  
“ _Exactly,”_ Toby returns.  
  
They both survey the alpha, watching as he beams at the small child accompanying him—no doubt _his_ child, judging by the matching, ruffled golden hair, that they’re both sporting smart spectacles and wearing jerseys dedicated to some sort of sport, Arthur isn’t sure what the sport in question is. Arthur watches as the child stands in front of his, presumably, father and makes grand, booming gestures, retelling a thrilling tale, and the alpha laughs and makes loud sound effects and interjections, his voice carrying throughout the emergency room. Yes, that boy must be the alpha’s offspring, they’re far too alike.  
  
Which must mean…  
  
“He’s alright, I suppose, but that has to be his son which means he’s likely mated,” Arthur points out. “Something you two _share._ ”  
  
“Nothing wrong with window shopping. Paul does it all the time,” Toby says, upturning his nose at Arthur.  
  
Arthur frowns but means no true censure by it, Toby knows that, and he glances down at his clipboard once more, groaning.  
  
“What a moron,” he gripes under his breath, but Toby overhears and looks at him, prompting Arthur. “My next one is some pillock who has cut his leg open climbing over a metal fence.”  
  
“Doing what?” Toby asks as though smarting just from hearing about the stupidity of the injury.  
  
“Retrieving a baseball,” Arthur says, reading the remainder of the description.  
  
Toby shakes his head with exaggerated offence, hands on his hips, muttering, “You’ve got the fit American, then, and I bet you won’t even flirt with him, Mr. Prude.”  
  
Tutting, Toby calls out for his next patient and shoots one last playfully accusatory glance at Arthur before disappearing into consultations. Arthur should really get on and do the same but his chest feels oddly… _light_ and fizzy now that they’ve connected the dots and discovered the alpha is the pillock who is next on Arthur’s list.  
  
Arthur straightens himself, brushing lint from his uniform. Posture poised and expression schooled into cool professionalism, he calls out for Mr. Jones and pretends as though his heart doesn’t swoop down into his belly when the handsome alpha looks around and meets Arthur’s eyes before ushering his son, collecting their backpacks and approaching Arthur. The alpha is hobbling, his limp quite pronounced, and his trousers reveal a rip that’s curved around from the inner seam—right against his inner thigh—and is stained with old blood.  
  
He’s already had painkillers, Arthur’s file tells him, and the receptionist has typed in her notes that Mr. Jones has fashioned a light dressing himself but the wound had looked deep enough to warrant stitches. They shall see, anyway, alphas are always the most mardy and dramatic about any injury or an iota of pain.  
  
Arthur eyes the man’s leg with disapproval, pursing his lips.  
  
“Clambering over fences, I see?” Arthur remarks, wondering if it would be too rude to imply that the alpha’s old enough to know better. “I trust you’ve stopped the bleeding?”  
  
“Sure have,” Mr. Jones counters, cheerful. His smile is slightly crooked, it’s charming, _too_ charming. Arthur almost misses the alpha holding himself back from referring to Arthur as ‘ma’am’ as though he’s some kind of military figure. Arthur scowls.  
  
“This way,” he clips out and swivels on his heel, guiding the two alphas towards the consultation room.  
  
Arthur gestures to the examination bed, lined with its paper barrier, to which Mr. Jones lowers himself awkwardly, and there is another opposite them that his son takes, glints of concern for his father flickering across his face as the alpha slumps on to the bed, a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. Arthur pushes his swivel stool next to the examination table and takes a seat across from Mr. Jones.  
  
“Before I examine this wound, I need to know if you’re still in pain—there are more painkillers you can take if you feel they’re necessary?” Arthur poses.  
  
“You should totally get some more, dad,” his son pipes up, urging his father. “You said it felt like a racoon was chowing down on your leg before!”  
  
“Uh,” Mr. Jones shoots a withering glance at his son who has shot down the pride the alpha had seemed keen to cling on to. Arthur raises his brows at the alpha, hurrying him along. “Yeah, since it’s kind of gnarly.”  
  
Arthur chooses not to comment on the moronic choice of words and says, “Alright, I’ll prescribe those for you. If the wound requires stitches, I likely would have anyway.”  
  
It’s the first time Arthur sees the alpha’s expression as anything less than what can be described as ‘sunny’, and it’s certainly worth it, for Arthur’s amusement, even if Mr. Jones has a pleasant smile.  
  
“Well, let’s have a look, then, you’ll need me to remove your trousers. Do you want me to draw the curtain?” Arthur poses with a hint of chirp, because, so it seems, teasing, even just a smidge, is fun—malicious fun, since the alpha is in _pain_ and Arthur has never been inclined to be unprofessional. He has to catch himself, and he nods when Mr. Jones declines the offer, and Arthur helps him drag his trainers off and the alpha unbuckles his belt, which Arthur doesn’t pay attention to because it’s innately _suggestive_ when an alpha that looks like Mr. Jones is doing so, and the man hisses as he pushes his jeans down, past the wound, and shimmies them off his ankles.  
  
Arthur busies himself, as though there is anything holding his attention to the clipboard in front of him, and dots some ‘I’s as he realises Mr. Jones is wearing tight boxer briefs that, while not revealing _all,_ the fabric certainly _hugs_ the bulge its containing.  
  
He clears his throat. Head _out_ the gutter.  
  
This man is out of his league, and likely mated, not that he smells of an omega but that’s not any of Arthur’s business, and Arthur’s not interested anyway. Of course not. He doubts he’s Mr. Jones’ type; Arthur has him pinned down as an alpha who prefers pretty omegas with nothing but stuffing between their ears and more than enough to fill their bras. Arthur’s too… _Arthur_ for most alphas, which is why he’s still single… of his own choosing, as well, naturally.  
  
But he _is_ an omega, while he may have crested recently over his prime, he’s got… eyes and a libido and an appreciation for certain features on an alpha like most hot-blooded, heterosexual omegas, and that is a decently sized package.  
  
The wound is worsened in appearance by the dried, flaking blood surrounding it, clinging to the fine, blond hairs on Mr. Jones’ thigh, and the injury is _very_ close to the alpha’s groin, probably too close for the alpha’s comfort. It’s not too alarming but Arthur can tell at a glance that it requires stitches. The alpha must have yanked his leg from a spire in the fence to cause that kind of gauge, no wonder he’s looking a bit grey around the gills.  
  
“That will need stitches, I’m afraid,” Arthur hums out. “You’re looking a bit woozy, Mr. Jones. I don’t want you to faint on me, I’d much rather we get your blood sugar up before I start. Would you like a sweet cup of tea?”  
  
“I don’t drink tea,” the alpha admits sheepishly. “I’ve got a smoothie in the car though, made it myself, with peanut butter! Tastes awesome.”  
  
A line creases between Arthur’s brow—this isn’t a bloody _holiday._ This is a working day for him, and he doesn’t have time to kill for wait for this man to have his ridiculous peanut butter smoothie.  
  
“I’ve got some chocolate in my desk, that’ll have to do,” Arthur says with a hard, imperious edge and he retrieves a handful of cheap, individually wrapped chocolates. “Here,” Arthur says to Mr. Jones son, offering him a chocolate too, since the lad is also looking white as a sheet. “I would advise your son waits outside.”  
  
“Yeah, kiddo, you’re squeamish, better get going!” Mr. Jones says, grinning. “Don’t worry, I can tough this out, and the nice nurse here will look after me. See if you can beat my Candy Crush high score! …not that you will,” the alpha challenges in a theatrical whisper.  
  
“No one plays Candy Crush anymore, dad,” his son says, sticking out his tongue and pushing himself up to his feet. “But I can kick your ass easily.”  
  
“Hey, _language,”_ Mr. Jones says all too lightly and humorously to carry any authority. “We’ll see, buddy.”  
  
The young alpha lets himself out of the room and Arthur turns to drawing up the local anaesthetic in a syringe and gathering the supplies he needs on to a trolley, setting down the sterilised needle, suture material and gauze, ignoring how Mr. Jones watches him, trepidation dancing in the glow of his blue eyes, even as the alpha attempts to maintain his brave ‘dad’ face. He distractedly takes the wrapper off another chocolate and pops it into his mouth.  
  
Adorable, really, but Arthur doesn’t _willingly_ think that.  
  
“He seems like a nice young lad,” Arthur says, surprising himself since he never makes small talk even though a kindly bed manner is supposedly the cornerstone of nursing success. Arthur’s gotten this far and retained his jaded, short-tempered nature so he must be doing something right.  
  
“Frankie?” Alfred nods, effusively, pleased by the praise of his son. “Yeah, he’s a great kid.”  
  
“How old is he?” Honestly, Mr. Jones doesn’t look that old himself.  
  
“He’s eleven…,” the alpha says, sliding a hand through his hair in an awkward gesture. The man couldn’t be more than mid to late twenties himself. “He was a broken condom baby.”  
  
“Ah,” is all Arthur can think to say.  
  
Mr. Jones breaks out into a hearty laugh.  
  
“You know how it is, one minute you’re having fun and the next you’re gonna be a parent,” Mr. Jones chuckles out, nothing but fondness but his son.  
  
“I _wouldn’t_ know. I don’t have any children,” Arthur retorts, coming to sit in the stool in front of Alfred, gaze sharp, daring Mr. Jones to continue is this thread of conversation that will persuade Arthur to stitch Mr. Jones up without anaesthetic.  
  
He’s not… sore about it. He just doesn’t like to speak about his childless, spinster lifestyle that he has accidentally and unwittingly landed himself into, and unhappily, too, he might add. He doesn’t need young, handsome alphas, seemingly with his life all in order considering he’d fallen into the teenage pregnancy category and that normally all goes tits up, commenting and making judgements. Arthur’s single because it’s best suited for his career, which he takes very seriously and finds contentment in and wouldn’t risk over trivial details like children and a mate who wants to spend their life with him— _no,_ he always puts nursing first.  
  
This revelation flusters Mr. Jones. Arthur never talks about his sodding _personal_ life with patients either, until today, apparently.  
  
“Oh, sorry, dude,” Mr. Jones garbles out. “Shouldn’t have assumed— _whoops—_ you just seemed like the mumsy type! In a good way, I mean.”  
  
“You’re lucky this cut wasn’t any higher, Mr. Jones,” Arthur quips, ignoring the ambiguously but ultimately offensive comment—if he looks _mumsy_ and he doesn’t have any children, then no wonder his sex life has been sold to the void. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be having any more children, and I’m sure your mate wouldn’t have been pleased.”  
  
“It’s Alfred,” the alpha replies, tensing as Alfred holds his thigh still—cold hand—and begins to disinfect and clean the wound. “And I don’t have a mate.”  
  
That stumps Arthur.  
  
No mate? He must be courting someone then. Even with a child from another relationship, this alpha couldn’t possibly stay single; omegas must be drooling and lining up for him.  
  
“Then the bearer of your future children wouldn’t have been pleased,” Arthur amends, not sure if it’s entirely appropriate. It doesn’t sound it to his ears, but, to his relief, Alfred snorts with amusement, right before hisses through his teeth as Arthur wipes disinfectant over the wound.  
  
“I’ve not found anyone who wants to have any of my future babies, yet,” Alfred comes out with and Arthur’s hand stills, and he doesn’t dare look up to the alpha. He has been acutely aware of how close his face is to the alpha’s groin throughout the entirety of the conversation, and it’s not as though the alpha is implying anything with his words, but Arthur feels a shiver ripple over the knobbles of this spine as his nerves remind him, brightly, excitedly, that he’s touching this man’s thigh, a _single_ alpha, and he can’t tear his gaze from his leg otherwise they’ll meet eyes and Arthur will blush.  
  
His brain reminds him, absurdly, that babies are always preceded by _baby making_ and Arthur finds the prospect of such an act with this alpha too appealing to be tangled in with treating a patient, and, again, he tacks a fierce warning to the forefront of his mind that Alfred isn’t flirting with him. Arthur doesn’t even recall how flirting… _happens,_ and Americans are a world apart from the stiff, bumbling attention of British alphas. This could simply be Alfred being friendly and oversharing.  
  
“I’m sure you will,” Arthur mutters out in a quiet, noncommittal tone and hopes he passes it off as casual and it doesn’t betray how there’s a tight coil of thrilling lightness in his belly. “Alright, you’ll feel a few small scratches—” Arthur lies as he injects the anaesthetic in various places around the wound site.  
  
“What the hell? That’s _stabbing,_ not scratching!” the alpha above him squawks. His thigh is muscular, and as the alpha reacts to the pain, the muscles feel like stone under Arthur’s palm. _Powerful._ There doesn’t appear to be an ounce of fat on Alfred and Arthur’s seized by the frightening urge to pull up his t-shirt to get an eyeful of taut stomach muscles and the defined ‘V’ that leads down to where Arthur’s face is precariously close to.  
  
“Belt up, it’s done now,” Arthur brushes off. “It acts in under a minute.”  
  
“It’d better, that hurt more than the damned fence taking a chunk outta my leg,” Alfred grumbles.  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes, unconcerned if Mr. Jones sees him, and waits for a minute or so before tapping on various spots around the anaesthetised patch on the alpha’s leg and asking if he has any sensation, to which Arthur is nervously supplied the answer ‘no’.  
  
“I would suggest not watching,” Arthur says smartly, his intuition warning him that he likely has a fainter on his hands. He’s never been wrong, thus far.  
  
Alfred seems to want to contradict Arthur, as to imply that he’s not fainthearted enough that he cannot watch, and his face is set with determination until Arthur threads the suture material through the needle and Alfred nods profusely and looks dead ahead, eyes fixed to the wall opposite them. Arthur would have snorted with laughter. Bloody alphas.  
  
“I’m starting now,” he informs the alpha and Alfred grunts in response. “Could you relax a touch? I won’t even break through the skin at this rate.”  
  
Alfred breathes out a rasp of laughter and slouches into his perch at the edge of the bed.  
  
“You reckon you could distract me or something?” Alfred suggests in a tone that makes him sound boyish and even younger than he is.  
  
Arthur pierces through skin and applies himself to the delicate task at hand, closing the wound, one precise stitch at a time, and his free hand anchors himself using the free space on Alfred’s thigh, unthinking of whereabouts his hand _actually_ is. Obviously, he’s seen and _touched_ it all before but never on an alpha as attractive as Alfred, but he tries not to think about where his hand is, rather concentrate on the important job he has. Alfred probably wouldn’t appreciative of a botched stitch up.  
  
“What brought you to the UK?” Arthur questions, it sounds like needling even to him but he’s never been skilled at small talk.  
  
“My… job,” the alpha replies in a strange pitch. “Don’t ask me what it is.”  
  
Arthur glances up.  
  
“You know I’m going to ask now,” Arthur says, and Alfred’s answering smile is a bit silly. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, it can’t be that bad.” Arthur raises his brows. “You’re not a stripper, are you?”  
  
Alfred bursts out with masculine laughter.  
  
“Nah, not that it sounds bad.”  
  
Arthur admits to himself that he wouldn’t be opposed to seeing Alfred undress himself sensually, and would be willing to spare some money to that cause.  
  
“What’s got you blushin’?” the question surfaces from above Arthur and while the tone is teasing, there’s an underlying edge that undulates against Arthur’s skin, makes all the fine hairs stand on edge, as though he’s drawing out Arthur from his shell… _flirting_ with him.  
  
“I’m not blushing,” Arthur retorts, hasty and severe, embarrassment sinking into the base of his stomach.  
  
The laughter that follows, from Alfred, is husky this time.  
  
“Go on, then,” Arthur challenges, flustered, unsure of himself—and right now, as he’s threading a needle through the alpha’s skin, is not the ideal time for Arthur to lose his nerve because Alfred has a sexy laugh and is confusing Arthur with his playful suggestiveness.  
  
Alarm disturbs the alpha’s scent and he clenches, Arthur feels the muscles tighten beneath his hand.  
  
“…go on what?” Is it Arthur, or does the alpha have a… predatory quality to him, anticipatory, even.  
  
Arthur huffs, “What _is_ your job?”  
  
“Oh,” Alfred replies, his voice falling flat as though this had been an unexpected query from Arthur, which it shouldn’t have been. What had the alpha been expecting? “Computer engineering. I got transferred here. It’s pretty nerdy.”  
  
“It is, rather,” the omega responds with the faint dance of a smirk on his lips, and a glimmering, sunshine sensation froths in his chest when Alfred is openly amused by Arthur’s teasing, because two can play at this game—in theory, Arthur doesn’t have the faintest clue what he’s done, but he has the impression that he might have just flirted in kind.  
  
Arthur settles down to focus and he’s nearing the end of the job when Arthur begins to bristle. Alfred becomes restless and persists in shifting and tilting his hips away from Arthur, for whatever reason, but it’s impossible to keep a steady hand with Alfred shuffling about like child in the final class of the day.  
  
He parts his lips, ready to scold Alfred, but notices, as his eyes flicker and adjust to looking at anything besides the mostly closed wound on Alfred’s leg, that…  
  
_Oh._  
  
“Shit—” Alfred hisses above him, an exclamation that punctures the silence between them.  
  
Arthur stares, heat blooming from his face and spreading down to his chest, and it’s unfurling from equal measures of mortification and… arousal. Well, he’s _flattered,_ and it’s a furiously stupid feeling, as it’s only an erection and alphas are infamous for having such a reaction to just about anything. But this is Alfred, and the alpha must be experiencing this because of Arthur.  
  
“I’m so sorry! I’m not a creep, I swear!” Alfred vows with ferocious, forceful panic, his gaze latched on to Arthur and brimming with dread.  
  
The erection in question is impressive, trapped in Alfred’s underwear; the thick, pleasing shape of it sloping off towards Alfred’s right hip. And Arthur’s _staring._ He jerks his head, and he swears his brain rattles with the force of it, and he looks anywhere but Alfred, specifically the highly distracting cock, the searing memory of which is making Arthur’s head swim.  
  
_Sodding hell,_ he has to pray, now that his attraction to Alfred is essentially kindling set alight, burning fragrant, that desire isn’t seeping into his scent for the alpha to detect.  
  
“Oh, man, this is awkward,” Alfred groans miserably, burying his face into his hands. “ _Jesus._ I was trying to stop— _that_ from happening the whole time but—”  
  
But what, Arthur wonders.  
  
“You can stop if you’re uncomfortable,” the alpha offers, his face cringing as though he’s bitten into something bitter.  
  
“I’m not going to stop,” Arthur says, betrayed by the breathlessness constricting his throat. “It happens… sometimes. Nothing to worry about, and I have to finish up here.”  
  
“Oh yeah? You get this a lot?” It’s an attempt to lighten the mood but Alfred’s confidence is dishevelled.  
  
“No,” Arthur admits, pursing his lips. “I didn’t earn the name ‘The Matron’ because I’m particularly charming with alphas.”  
  
“Are matrons hot? Because that’s how you look, sat down there, like that…”  
  
_Oh, god._ Arthur actually _throbs_ between his legs, it’s a startling, visceral reaction and he can register the exact moment Alfred detects his slick scent because the alpha’s pupils blow out, eyes wildly dilated and Arthur might as well be looking at an alpha on the verge of a rut, considering how ravenous Alfred appears to be. So _that_ is what Alfred had been thinking about.  
  
Arthur has an absurd chain of thought that leads him to assess how easy it would be to remove Alfred from his boxers and re-enact exactly what the alpha has apparently been daydreaming about since Arthur took his seat in front of Alfred.  
  
_No,_ he’d lose his job if he was ever caught and he has standards, he thinks, he hasn’t dated in a while, or ever been courted, but Arthur is sure he isn’t the kind of omega who gives himself to alpha so readily on the first date. Not that this is a date, he’s stitching up a gauge left by a bloody fence _._  
  
“You smell good,” Alfred states raggedly.  
  
“I’m… done,” Arthur says, fumbling with his words as he rolls his chair back after wiping down the wound one last time. He has a better view of Alfred from here, and that bulge only seems _larger_ now.  
  
The alpha shakes himself out of the daze, his eyes clearing, sharpening, behind his glasses, and his knuckles are bone-white as he clenches down on to the bed.  
  
“I’m really sorry, I—” As if realising himself, Alfred clumsily reaches down to pull his trousers back up and fasten his belt and it conceals the erection rather effectively but Arthur _knows_ what’s under there and he mourns the loss of being able to see it. “ _Fuck—_ this was… I should just… go.”  
  
“Hang on a moment,” Arthur says, heart thumping as he returns to his desk and swipes over the mouse to bring the PC back to life. “I need to prescribe those painkillers for you. And you’ll need to book an appointment with your local GP to ensure the wound is healing and hasn’t become infected.”  
  
Alfred nods, shamefaced and hesitant to walk any closer to Arthur’s desk.  
  
“It’s also traditional to ask an omega out for dinner before getting an erection in their face,” Arthur adds in a flurry of ungainly, almost hysterical boldness and an urgency for this small bead of happiness to flower into something more. Alfred has made no indication he actually likes Arthur outside of the proximity his face had been to his crotch recently, but… perhaps Arthur isn’t mad for _hoping—_ but maybe he is wrong, he’s never been lucky in romance.  
  
Alfred’s reaction to Arthur’s remark is unnervingly difficult to gauge but the alpha’s stance seems to loosen and then his eyes are brighter, relief softens his features, enlivening his face with youth and there’s a tug of a grin at his lips.  
  
“I guess I already messed that up,” Alfred says. “I’ll try my best not to pop another boner at dinner but if I do, you only got yourself to blame.”  
  
_Unbelievable,_ Arthur marvels to himself.  
  
Alfred leaves, rushing off to rescue his child from boredom, but not before he has Arthur write down his phone number and promise he’ll be in touch. Arthur spends the remainder of his day walking on air and as cheerful as a summer’s day.  
  
It became apparent all too soon that Arthur _is_ the kind of omega to give himself to an alpha on the first date.

**Author's Note:**

> Alfred would absolutely do this, who's with me?


End file.
